Bloodlines

me, and barged into the kitchen, where they neatly planted themselves in front of the food closet and trained angelic eyes upon their favorite companion animal.
    “You see that clock?” I asked politely. “Three hours to go.” They eat at five. Actually, they eat from five o’clock until precisely twenty seconds after five. Tired of finicky eaters? Could I interest you in a nice rescue dog? “Find something else to think about, huh?”
    Having offered that advice, I took it myself. My dogs weren’t overweight, but when I spread my hands over their solid chests and rubbed hard, I could feel the healthy layers of muscle that hide their ribs from view even in the summer when they’re shed out. I stroked their thick, clean, sweet-smelling coats, checked their ears and teeth—pristine—and glanced at their well-trimmed nails. Dogs don’t absolutely need to be bathed and groomed like that. In fact, Rowdy is convinced that a warm bath is a life-threatening event, and, especially when I shampoo his tail and flanks, he yowls and shrieks so loudly and intensely that the sound waves whack against my head like breakers smashing into a seawall. Since acquiring Rowdy, I’ve certainly sustained a significant hearing loss and probably undergone a series of minor noise-induced concussions, too, but, as I’ve said, dogs don’t actually require and often don’t even enjoy show-ring perfection. But to remain healthy, they need basic cleanliness, not to mention food, shelter...
    So I wasn’t very successful in trying to think about something else, and, in any case, despite the limits on what anyone could do, I needed to do something. For advice about exactly what, I called Betty Burley, one of the most effective Malamute Rescue people around here. As I’ve confessed already, my own Malamute Rescue efforts had consisted largely of repeated failures to find good homes, not that I entirely blame myself. I mean, if you think about it, God undoubtedly has exactly the same problem in placing rescued angels. The prospective adopters are all lined up, they’re full of enthusiasm, wild about the breed, and then all of a sudden, they ask what seems like one last perfunctory question, namely, “Say, they don’t shed, do they?” And God, eyeing those richly feathered white wings, clears Her throat, ers, ums, and reluctantly spits out the truth.
    “But,” the Deity hastens to add, “only twice a year. And with a really powerful vacuum cleaner and a good daily brushing, you’ll hardly notice it!” The people, unconvinced, say thanks, hang up, and dash to the nearest pet shop to pay six hundred dollars for a toy-size lap demon. So, as I’ve said, why should I feel guilty or inadequate? Everyone who does rescue has the same problem.
    The exception is Betty Burley, who has been breeding, showing, and rescuing malamutes for thirty or forty years. Oh, and by the way, when I say that Betty does rescue, I don’t just mean that she takes back her own dogs. Every ethical breeder does that. Let me add that although not everyone around here is crazy about Betty Burley, she and I get along fine. One reason I like her a lot is that she reminds me of Kimi, and you’re welcome to tell Betty I said that, too. She’ll probably be flattered. She should be. Kimi is highly intelligent, incredibly pretty, unmistakably feminine, outrageously dominant, and genuinely tough. I first met Betty Burley at a local kennel club’s annual banquet, where we found ourselves seated next to one another. After we’d exchanged only a few words, I discovered that I’d draped my left arm around my dinner plate and was keeping a vigilant eye on Betty in case she made a Kimi-like lunge for my broiled Boston scrod. In brief, despite the absence of a thick double coat, a full mask, and, so far as I know, a long plumy tail, and despite Betty’s seventy-odd years, she is so much like Kimi that her presence turns me food protective. All this is to say that Betty is good at getting what she wants, namely, responsible homes for rescue dogs or, in the case of the kennel club banquet, the fish that I didn’t finish. So Betty has more experience in rescue work and greater force of character than I do, and I needed help. I reached her at her kennel number and explained about Puppy Luv.
    “That place!” Betty swore under her breath. “I’d like to strangle them.”
    “Failing that,” I said, “is there anything we can do?”
    Betty ignored the question. “That